Lonely Halls of Stone
by Guild of Scribes
Summary: The elder races are fading, the Age of Men is rising. As men spread over the world, an old Dwarf bids the ancient halls of his home goodbye...


**Lonely Halls of Stone.**

 _By Lothr._

* * *

A short, broad figure paced the dark cavern halls, cold and stone carved and wrought of living rock and mountain roots gleaming dimly in the light of his lantern. He was old, beard long and white, a stout cane he leant upon as he walked, heavy boots thumping on stone and the iron tip of his support tapped sharply on the ground, echoing faintly in the massive hall long left empty.

Most Dwarven halls were empty now, just a handful of his folk remained in the whole of Middle Earth; the Khazad-folk were dwindling away, withdrawing deeper and deeper into old caverns, waiting out the decades and remembering the high days of their past.

They were nearly gone, and even now men thought them to be fantasy of old folk told to children for entertainment.

The old Dwarf sighed.

All the old races were nearly gone now.

Elves had long since gone, fading away in the mountains and forests and hidden cities of their ancient homes after the last ships sailed, becoming part of the nostalgic spirit of the earth, part of memory hidden in the wise old trees and in the enduring bones of the earth, leaving little sign of their great realms.

Their healing touch was unremembered by living things, but never lost by the careful watch of time.

Although the mountains and forest and seas would in time forget the fair folk that once dwelt in them, the land would forever bear the mark of the hands of the Edhel.

Eventually, men would begin to dig into the mountains and rock, mining deep for iron and gold and gems of value, and would find the ancient and deep delvings of the Dwarves from so long ago.

The grand halls would wear through time to mere columns, fine handiwork worn away by water and silt, cracks filled in by dust of years. The stark Khuzdul inscriptions would become unreadable, rich tradition and heritage of those that built these halls forever lost to men. These old caverns would bear mystery till the rending of the earth to those who would come after, but they would endure.

The old Dwarf looked up to the high ceiling of the great hall and smiled.

The Age of Men was well upon them, and the elder races were passing away, leaving only secret wisdom behind and a world free of foreign evil.

Yes, the elder races had done well! They had prepared the way for the younger to thrive, and one day they might again meet.

Until then, the Elves, the Dwarves, and Hobbit-folk would pass from memory until the ending of time reunited the kindreds in blessed harmony and peace at last, just as Illuvaltar had planned.

He turned away, finding the hidden door to the empty city and pulling it open to stand in the light of day.

One day, thousands of years into the ages to come, these halls would be found and marveled at by the children of men, wondering at their makers, for who had delved these cavern halls?

The Dwarves would be forgotten for their part of history, perhaps only remembered in children's tales just as the Elves and Hobbits and goblins.

But for now, they would fade, leaving their legacy to the Secondborn, and they would be content to know that great kingdoms would come of them.

Great kingdoms indeed!

He turned his back on the halls of his childhood, the home of his forebears, and stepped out and shut the door.

It was a hidden door, wrought with the fading magic of the Dwarves and Elves... beautiful craftsmanship! It could not be broken by force, but opened by a simple word after the fashion of the great east gate of Khazad-Dum. Simple lore would show the answer.

Shouldering his pack, the old Dwarf set off down the path towards the east. His kin were gathering in the great mountains, and he would join them.

The heavy beat of boots on stone echoed against the ravine walls, from one side to the other, and back again.

The memory of the mountains are long, and to this day, perhaps in you listen closely, you may yet hear the thump of dwarf-feet echoing still in the ancient home of that great folk...

 _Finis._


End file.
